“Look here, my lass,” said Alan, “there are boats in the Kingdom of Fife, for I saw two (no less) upon the beach, as I came in by your town’s end.  Now if we could have the use of a boat to pass under cloud of night into Lothian, and some secret, decent kind of a man to bring that boat back again and keep his counsel, there would be two souls saved—­mine to all likelihood—­his to a dead surety.  If we lack that boat, we have but three shillings left in this wide world; and where to go, and how to do, and what other place there is for us except the chains of a gibbet—­I give you my naked word, I kenna!  Shall we go wanting, lassie?  Are ye to lie in your warm bed and think upon us, when the wind gowls in the chimney and the rain tirls on the roof?  Are ye to eat your meat by the cheeks of a red fire, and think upon this poor sick lad of mine, biting his finger ends on a blae muir for cauld and hunger?  Sick or sound, he must aye be moving; with the death grapple at his throat he must aye be trailing in the rain on the lang roads; and when he gants his last on a rickle of cauld stanes, there will be nae friends near him but only me and God.”

At this appeal, I could see the lass was in great trouble of mind, being tempted to help us, and yet in some fear she might be helping malefactors; and so now I determined to step in myself and to allay her scruples with a portion of the truth.

“Did ever you, hear” said I, “of Mr. Rankeillor of the Ferry?”

“Rankeillor the writer?” said she.  “I daur say that!”

“Well,” said I, “it’s to his door that I am bound, so you may judge by that if I am an ill-doer; and I will tell you more, that though I am indeed, by a dreadful error, in some peril of my life, King George has no truer friend in all Scotland than myself.”

Her face cleared up mightily at this, although Alan’s darkened.

“That’s more than I would ask,” said she.  “Mr. Rankeillor is a kennt man.”  And she bade us finish our meat, get clear of the clachan as soon as might be, and lie close in the bit wood on the sea-beach.  “And ye can trust me,” says she, “I’ll find some means to put you over.”

At this we waited for no more, but shook hands with her upon the bargain, made short work of the puddings, and set forth again from Limekilns as far as to the wood.  It was a small piece of perhaps a score of elders and hawthorns and a few young ashes, not thick enough to veil us from passersby upon the road or beach.  Here we must lie, however, making the best of the brave warm weather and the good hopes we now had of a deliverance, and planing more particularly what remained for us to do.